


Signs of Survivors

by TiaCicada



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaCicada/pseuds/TiaCicada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“So,” she began conversationally, “you say you're the third best spy after Palamas and Romanov?  Impressive.”</p>
    </blockquote>





	Signs of Survivors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thequeenofokay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeenofokay/gifts).



> “So,” she began conversationally, “you say you're the third best spy after Palamas and Romanov? Impressive.”

     Few things make you appreciate your own face more than months of not seeing it. Getting her mask fixed had changed Kara. Her aversion to all things reflective had become a fascination with them. Every mirror, every darkened window, every shiny spoon beckoned her with the question: _where is Kara Palamas? Is she in there?_

     Before Grant, before Bakshi, before _closure_ , Kara had washed her hands with her head bowed. After, she'd let the water run for ten minutes while she got lost in her own eyes. _Dark and warm and endlessly deep_. Before, when forced to pass the standing mirror, Kara had done it quickly with her head tilted away. After, Kara couldn't resist lingering over it, often leaning forward to hunt down signs of her lost _self_ under the scars.

    It was vain, but she couldn't help herself.

    Embarrassingly, Grant always seemed to catch her. Every morning, he'd emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, all clean-shaven with towel-dried hair, just in time to find her scrutinizing her reflection with narrowed eyes.

    Sometimes she'd joke about the hot water or that day's plans to distract him. It never worked.

    “You're beautiful,” he'd say, warm hands cupping her shoulders. Sometimes his thumbs pressed circles into her shoulder blades until she sighed, eyes fluttering shut. Sometimes he just rested his chin on the top of her head, his every smile tugging at her scalp. Sometimes he called her breathtaking or radiant or gorgeous instead. Always, he tried to reassure her. He didn't get it.

    “I'm not insecure. I'm _intrigued._ ”

    The faintest line creased his brow.

    She tried to explain. Beneath the burned flesh, the arc of her eyebrow was still evident. When she smiled, she recognized the wide curve of her cheek. Frowning exposed the first wrinkle she'd ever noticed. Once upon a time, that beautiful crease had bothered her. Now, after months of seeing nothing but a broken Melinda May impersonator, these little glimpses of familiarity were thrilling.

    “See? It's me!” She traced the scars in the mirror, pointing out the evidence of _Kara_ strewn throughout the ruins of her face. Broken artifacts in the sands of a vast desert. “I'm _here._ And here... and here...” Obscured and half-hidden, but alive and undeniably real. Whitehall hadn't destroyed her. He'd just buried her for a while.

    “You're finding yourself.”

    Kara shrugged. “Parts of me, anyway. Signs I survived...”

    His hands slid forward to fold her in a very welcome embrace. Heat radiated from his shower-warmed flesh, seeping into her and chasing away the morning's chill. Kara sank back against him, breathing in the scent of cypress and mint, basking in his attention.

    “You're a survivor.”

    “Like you.”

    She felt it when he smiled; a slight tug at her scalp.

    “Plus, it's fun!” she continued, glancing aside. “Like... Where's Waldo. With my face.”

    His laugh resonated through her.

    “Sounds more like I spy.”

    Shyly, Kara stole a glance up at mirror Grant from beneath her lashes (one eye's worth, at least). He looked fond. He was watching her reflection with affectionate bewilderment. She half-expected him to ruffle her hair and call her strange. Instead, his arms tightened and he slid his chin down until his lips were at her ear.

    Her heart sped up. He probably felt that, she realized.

    “Can I play?” he asked softly.

    Kara blinked. Was Grant saying he wanted to stare at her? The way she desperately wanted to stare at him? Her smile was irrepressible.

    “Okay!”

    Twisting in his arms, Kara turned from her reflection to face him. At this proximity, he filled her vision, blotting out the room like an eclipse. Her eyes swept back and forth, trying to read him. Smiling eyes. Relaxed jaw. Playful glint. She decided to challenge him.

    “I spy... a freckle shaped like an upside-down heart.”

    “Mission accepted.”

    His intensity startled her. She'd expected a soulful staring contest. Instead he scoured her face with narrowed eyes, like he was surveying a terrain for tiny heart-shaped bombs. She bit back a laugh. Apparently freckle-hunting was serious business for Grant Ward. Too bad it was a trick. Between her hairline and scars, Kara's heart was half-hidden. It looked more like a teardrop now. Smirking internally, she thought about how long it would take him to figure her out.

    Then he leaned in, and thinking got a little harder. The base of his ear filled her vision; just below it was a shiny, raised scar like a whale cresting a wave. Kara smiled at it.

    Then his breath caressed her neck. Thinking got _a lot_ harder then. The urge to grab him filled her; Kara made fists instead. That didn't help. His breaths kept coming, teasing her, making her pant. Half-formed, her thoughts scattered like sand in desert winds.

    When his hair brushed her ear, she clenched her jaw to keep from whimpering. Kara loved his hair. Remembered the feel of it slipping soft and silky through her fingers when they'd kissed.

    Every part of her had liked _that._ Even the sleeping parts of her had woken up for _that_. Soft lips. Warm skin. Firm chest. Sensation had ripped through her like flash fire, thawing her frozen soul. For one bright, blazing moment, Kara had felt alive and real and whole.

    Then, he'd recoiled.

    Nothing douses a flame faster than a man cringing from your lips. In hindsight, wearing his shooter's face hadn't been the brilliant seduction she'd intended. Kara wanted nothing more than to forget it.

    Except, maybe, to experience it again.

    “Am I close?” he asked in a voice like silk.

    “So close,” she whispered. It was true. She could feel him bat his eyelashes like moth wings on her skin. Her thoughts became a sandstorm, wild and disparate. Hot throat. Cool breath. Mint and Cypress. At this angle, his scar was a melting ice cream cone. It was close, so close, close enough to lick. Kara thought. Kara wanted. Kara–

    “Give me a hint?”

    All sands of thought crashed down except this:

_Do it._

    Shakily, she raised one hand to tilt his chin. He let her. Faces level, her breath shivered over his lips. In. Out. In. Her eyes felt impossibly wide in her head. His watched unblinking as she slipped deeper and deeper into the dark pools of warmth that were windows into _him_. Only a sliver of air existed between them. Kissing would be as easy as tilting her chin.

    He opened his mouth to ask–

    Kara swallowed his words with a kiss.

    Fire crackled under her skin. Little sparks starting at every point of contact. His hands were gentle in her hair. Warm and happy, she arched into him. More contact, more sparks, soon a blaze. It shot through her veins, fusing her fractured pieces together, while he held them in place. Then—suddenly—abruptly— Grant pulled back, eyes flashing with triumph.

    “ _Found_ it!”

    Kara blinked.

    Before she could make sense of this, Grant's lips were on her forehead and sense became unthinkable. He planted soft, wet kisses upon her scar. Kara wondered at that. Who broke a _kiss_ kiss for forehead kisses? Was it escalation? _Are we making out?_ Or was it platonic – a gentle letdown? Kara glanced up, but all she saw was the edge of his smooth-for-now jaw. Meanwhile, his warm arms held her close, forearms heavy on her shoulders while his hands stroked her hair. It felt strange, but good.

    Kara dropped her gaze to his throat and noticed his pulse was visibly racing.

_Intriguing._

    “ _You_ almost got me,” he murmured. Kiss. “Heart-shaped!”

    She remembered then. Freckle hunt. _He's kissing my heart_!

    “Teardrop, more like.” Kiss again.

    “Not when you see all of it.”

    His tongue got involved, as if he could lick her tear away, and she had to grab his shoulders for support. Not platonic, she decided, gasping as he mouthed along the edge of her scar. Definitely not platonic.

    “You should feel proud.” Kiss. “Almost tricking the best spy since Romanov?” Kiss. “ _Impressive_.”

    “You're taking this- _oh-_ very seriously.”

    “ _Well_ ,” Kiss. “I'm always serious about spy games.” Kiss. Kiss.

    “You _are_ pretty good at this,” she sighed.

    “ _Pretty_ good?” He pulled back – all mock offense and pleasure-dark eyes. “Oh! Oh! I'd like to see you do better.”

    Kara raised her only eyebrow. “You're on.”

    If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

    “Alright.” Grant's hands abandoned her to stroke his lack of beard. “Let's see. I spy... with my eagle eye... uh... small scar like-”

    Kara's lips hit his scar before he'd finished. She sucked hard enough to drag a shuddering breath from him, then pulled back, grinning.

    “So,” she began conversationally, “you say you're the third best spy after Palamas and Romanov? _Impressive._ ”

    Grant's expression was glorious. Lust and annoyance made a fascinating combination on his face.

    “That was luck. You're—”

    “Breathtaking?” she suggested sweetly.

    “I could've meant a different scar.”

    Kara replied by slowly, sweetly raising her lips to his. Of course, he let her. It wasn't like before. They were the same temperature now; no surge of heat shocked her system. Instead of flame, she felt strength. The strength of his arms as they crushed her to him, the press of his chest as it fell and rose. The force of her will parting his lips with her tongue. Kara made a map of his open mint mouth, won a groan of concession, then slid her lips down to his throat.

    “Good point,” he whispered, tilting his head to give her better access.

    After that, they were quiet. Kara worked her lips along his throat, sucking gently, content to savor the sound of his increasingly ragged breaths. By the time her curiosity reasserted itself, his throat was bruised and glistening. She shouldn't have been proud of that. But she was.

    “Grant?” she murmured. _Kiss_.

    “Yeah...” his voice was dazed and breathy.

    She started to kiss her way back to his scar. “How” _kiss_ “would you” _suck_ “describe” _graze with teeth/ elicit gasp_ , “this scar?” _Nip. Lick. Kiss._

    Grant's voice was strained. “Half-eaten pomegranate.”

    Kara scoffed to show what she thought of that.

    “No?”

    She shook her head against him. _Kiss._

    “Hmm. What about... mutant caterpillar?”

    She nipped his jaw. “No.”

    “Smushed banana? Ooh, fish with guts hanging out!”

    “Gross!” She pulled back, laughing.

    “You're the one who kissed it. Fish-guts kisser.”

    His eyes were dark and flashing with mirth. Happiness became him. Kara pursed her lips. With playfully narrowed eyes, she leaned in to study the scar. Again, he adapted his posture to accommodate her. Grinning, Kara blew on his wet neck – s _ee how you like it –_ and sought to see something more meaningful than fish guts. When she finally saw it, the symmetry was thrilling.

    “A heart,” she decided.

    He frowned skeptically. “A heart.”

    “Well, half. One jagged half of a fat, crooked heart.”

    Kara got her soulful staring contest then. Her meaning was inescapable. If his was a half-heart, it was just like hers. Crooked. Jagged. Broken. Yet together, they'd be whole.

    “That's beautiful,” he finally said. “Not very manly, but-”

    Abruptly, Grant's expression soured. Over her shoulder, something unpleasant had caught his eye. Kara frowned.

    “Baby?”

    Grant stared without answering. Whatever it was had shocked the color and pleasure from his face; yet, when Kara turned all she saw was Grant reflected in the mirror. She couldn't imagine he was upset with the sight of himself.

    Then he touched his throat.

    “Oh,” she said sheepishly.

    “That's... a _lot_ of hickeys.”

    She watched him carefully. Beneath his calm mask, Kara could see evidence of feelings. A crease appeared in his forehead. Tiny muscles twitched in the hollows under his eye. Almost imperceptibly, his throat moved as he swallowed. Kara noticed all his tells; she just couldn't decipher them. Was he angry? Disappointed? Hurt? What if he never let her touch him again?

    For the first time since closure, Kara felt terribly empty. Stomach in knots, Kara balled her hands into fists and watched his face. She wished he would say something.

    “That one looks like a book,” he observed.

    Elated, Kara craned her neck to see. It didn't really, but she played along. Wryly, Grant said she'd probably call it a book of love poems. She laughed and swore it was war stories. Then she slid between Grant and the mirror, loosely encircled by his strong arms. Lightly, she danced her fingers across the marks.

    “That's a tooth - we can pretend you knocked it out on a fight. And a dragon - I'm sure you'll slay. Ooh, you can use this... _spear_!”

    She traced his Adam's apple.

    Grant's face was skeptical. “It's just a line, Kara.”

    “I could make it a spear,” she offered.

    Grant frowned at her.

    “Or... a sword?”

    His frown deepened.

    “Or something else. What do you want?”

    Grant looked thoughtful. Not angry or sad, but not happy anymore either. Soothingly, Kara stroked his shoulders over and over, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach. Then his lips were on her face, raining a thousand chaste kisses. Whispered assurances poured from his mouth: beautiful strong clever brave. They washed over her ruined flesh like a balm. Kara tightened her hands on him, bewildered by the flood of devotion, yet oddly relieved by it. His words and kisses quenched a thirst she hadn't realized she'd had. Then it was over. Grant's face pulled back, and searched her expression expectantly.

    Kara wondered what he expected.

    “Whatever you want, baby,” he answered. “Sword, spear... it's your call.”

    Slowly, Kara buried her face in his throat (again, he shifted to allow this) and bruised his Adam's apple with her teeth.


End file.
